That Time I Was A Squirrel Whisperer and Embraced My “Weird”

An excerpt from my upcoming memoir

Our next door neighbor has a sycamore tree in his backyard. I know a lot of people don’t care for sycamore trees because of their knobby large seed pods that travel hither and thither and hurt bare feet and make it hard to mow the lawn.

But, two of my favorite trees in our neighborhood are sycamores. The first one is the very old one I took a photograph of on my neighborhood walk today. The second is Larry’s tree. The sycamore in Larry’s backyard has hosted hawks’ nests year after year. I’m 99% sure hummingbirds build their nests in this tree under the hawks’ nest for protection every Summer when they migrate through Oklahoma, through our backyard.

When we first moved into our home in 2010, there was a white squirrel in our neighborhood. She caught my eye. I had never seen such a thing. In the neighborhood, we adored her. She lived at Larry’s house.

At first I thought she was a male squirrel and nicknamed her Francois. Eventually I figured out she was female and I changed her name to Frankie. I also found out our extremely shy and reclusive next door neighbor is a widower. Our other neighbors told me that when his wife was alive she would sit outside feeding the squirrels.

Frankie was often in our front yard and in Larry’s backyard. She lived in the roof of his house. I became sure Frankie was Larry’s wife reincarnated, watching over him, gingerly.

I would observe from our backyard as Frankie climbed the side of Larry’s house and disappeared into his roof. She’d hang out on the back patio of his house and often pillage my raised bed garden for juicy green tomatoes. Sometimes she would stand on his lawnmower and look into our backyard.

I talked to her. I didn’t care if our neighbors — or my family — thought I was crazy. Frankie and I had a strong connection.

Several years after meeting Frankie she was injured, probably by a bird of prey. She was fairly old for a neighborhood squirrel. I stood in our backyard for the better part of a day telling her it was okay to cross over and chanting a song I had recently learned in yoga class — Bless the Good by Sat Gur Prasad.

I loved that squirrel. I couldn’t quite explain it then and am having trouble articulating it now, but the bond I felt with this squirrel ran deep. She was one of the first wild animals who let me look her in the eyes. And she would return my gaze, trusting me. I learned from Frankie that I have the ability to communicate with animals. I am open to receiving them. Gazing into an animal’s eyes is the closest I ever get to a mind-stilling, open meditation.

Frankie died in Larry’s backyard under my watch. I hopped our fence and carefully placed her in a bag. David dug a grave and we buried her under our magnolia tree. A few neighbors came over to say goodbye, lighting candles and playing guitar. One neighbor wrote a song for her. We would all miss Frankie. White squirrels are not commonly seen in Tulsa and we haven’t seen one in our neighborhood since Frankie’s death.

The sycamore tree that I walk by one street over has swirls of browns and greys on its trunk. There are blemishes and bruises — the bark is peeling off. The top branches form a kind of curvaceous vase-like shape. It must be 100, 200 years old.

I’m sure it predates the 1950s houses of our neighborhood. It has felt in its roots and seen from its branches and leaves the wildness of a natural setting and the development encroaching upon it. It has seen our neighborhood in its posh days, its down-and-out days, and its now on-the-verge-of-a-new-renaissance days.

People of all kinds have walked past this tree. I wonder if Frankie ever ventured a few blocks over to visit it. Birds have perched on its branches. Its seed pods have traveled into yards nearby. It is a wise old tree and I am glad I can go to it now, mindfully reflecting, as we experience the year 2020 and the times of a strange new pandemic. This will be another thing of which the aged sycamore tree bears witness.

When I see common brown squirrels playing tag in Larry’s sycamore tree, coyly beheading sunflowers, or burying pecans in my garden I am often reminded of Frankie, and I find myself remembering her, and grinning at their squirrelly antics.